


woolgathering

by parsnipit



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Gaster Blaster (Undertale), Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dadster, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21713041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnipit/pseuds/parsnipit
Summary: An ongoing series of oneshots, featuring most prominently: Gaster being a phenomenal father, Grillby being the absolute best unofficial stepdad, a trio of mischievous skeletons, two dorks in love, a few insecurities, a handful of maladaptive coping mechanisms, domestic fluff, and an overabundance of affection because that's all I'm physically capable of writing at any point ever.
Relationships: W. D. Gaster & Papyrus & Sans, W. D. Gaster/Grillby
Comments: 11
Kudos: 72





	1. table of contents

i. _table of contents_

ii. _victory snacks._

Sans and Papyrus have to play a game of soccer for their PE class. Papyrus, naturally, is delighted. Sans is less so. Gaster takes his children to the game, and he (along with Grillby and Asgore) cheers the teams on. Papyrus learns a lesson about victory—and, perhaps, so does Grillby. (domestic fluff, with a side of veteran!grillby angst and a dash of grillster if you put your shipping goggles on)

iii. _because of...the noodles?_

GB!Gaster gets stuck in a form halfway between skeleton and blaster. Who better to comfort him through it than Grillby? (a splash of angst and insecurity, along with a dab of grillster fluff)

iv. _stubborn, aren't you?_

Gaster falls ill and decides that the most rational thing to do is lie about it and continue working himself into the ground. Fortunately, Grillby's having none of that. (angst, hurt/comfort, lotsa grillster)

v. _thanksgiving_

A fluffy holiday fic wherein Gaster and his children get to spend a day with their friends and family. As per usual, Gaster gets into mischief, but he also takes the time to reflect on how grateful he is for the people in his life. (fluff fluff fluff fLUFF, with a healthy side of dadster and grillster)

vi. _as long as you're with them_

Papyrus babysits Frisk while Sans and Toriel are out for the afternoon. (fluffy fluff, family feels)

vii. _for armor_

Babybones Sans and Papyrus wake up because of strange, spooky noises in the middle of the night. They go to defend their dad (and Grillby) from what are _obviously_ dangerous humans in the house. (Spoiler alert: it's not humans.) (fluff, dadster + grillster, hurt/comfort, a smidge of comedy)

viii. _against all of that_

Gaster wakes up from a nightmare, and Grillby is there to comfort him through the aftermath. (hurt/comfort, fluff galore, grillster and a pinch of dadster)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you'd like to request a prompt, you can do so in the comments or over at my tumblr, [@parsnipit!](https://parsnipit.tumblr.com/) i can't promise to fill all prompts quickly, but i'll do my best! i won't write nsfw/extreme violence or xreader fics (nothin against em! im just not so confident in my ability to write them, ehehe), but everything else is probably fair game!


	2. victory snacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: none!
> 
> based off of a prompt by @poisonousneedlekitty on tumblr!

“Okay, okay, we’ve got everything?” Gaster asks, rummaging frantically through his tote bag one last time. “Clothes, water, camera, rain jackets, bandaids, antibiotic ointment, ice packs, ace bandages—”

“We’re going to a soccer game, not a brawl, you know,” Sans teases.

“Sunscreen, that’s what we’re missing! Did you both put sunscreen on?” Gaster rushes back to the bathroom, snagging their bottle of sunscreen. He squirts some onto Sans’ hands. “Go go go go—”

Sans groans but slathers himself with the sunscreen while Gaster helps Papyrus put his on. Papyrus makes a face as Gaster dabs sunscreen across his skull. “Gross,” he decides. 

“You know what’s grosser? Putting aloe vera on every single day for a week because you bleached your bones with excessive ultraviolet radiation,” Gaster declares, capping the sunscreen and tossing it into his tote. He tugs Papyrus’ uniform shirt until it’s straight, then rocks back on his heels, satisfied. “There. You look awesome, Papyrus.”

That cheers his son up, anyhow. “Yeah I do!” Papyrus agrees enthusiastically, lifting his arms. Gaster scoops him up, carrying him towards the door. “Mrs. Collins made me be number seven because it’s her favorite number and  _ I’m  _ her favorite student.”

“Well, I’ll tell Mrs. Collins she made a very good choice, when I see her. Ready, Sans?”

Sans flashes him a thumbs-up, trailing after them to the car. Gaster sets Papyrus down in the back seat, buckling him into his booster seat while Sans climbs in next to him. Once the both of them are inside, Gaster hauls the door shut and hops into the driver’s seat, slinging his tote bag into the passenger’s seat. 

“I don’t see why I can’t ride in the front seat,” Sans says, as he’s taken to saying  _ every single time  _ they go on a car ride. 

“Have you  _ read  _ the caution labels?” Gaster asks, tapping enthusiastically on the warning plastered to the back of the sun visor. “Twelve and over, Sans. Twelve and over. You’re eleven.”

“Okay,  _ but  _ it also says to wait until you’re eighty pounds. Might I remind you that you barely weigh thirty pounds soaking wet? So, if  _ you’re  _ breaking the rules, then—”

“Do as I say, not as I do, little one.”

“Wait, I thought you hated that saying?”

“Can you stop remembering relevant facts at convenient times?” 

Sans laughs, slouching back in his seat and nudging Papyrus. “Alright, alright. I guess sitting back here isn’t so bad—I get to hang out with the world’s coolest little brother, right, Paps?”

“Right!” Papyrus beams, nudging Sans back. “Can we play on your DS?”

As Sans and Papyrus settle in to play their video games, Gaster pulls out of the driveway and onto the road. He’s only driven halfway down the street when Papyrus suddenly sits bolt upright, his eyes widening. 

“Wait, Dad!”

It takes a significant amount of willpower to keep Gaster from slamming on the brakes and severely pissing off the driver behind him. “What?” he asks, his fingers tightening on the wheel and his soul flickering frantically behind his sternum. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

“The  _ victory snacks  _ did you remember the  _ victory snacks—?” _

Gaster wheezes.

“Ha ha, Grillbz is bringing them today, bro, remember?” Sans says. “And it’s probably for the best. I mean, after what happened  _ last  _ time—”

“Okay so the cupcakes weren’t  _ that  _ bad,” Gaster says, once he remembers how to breathe. He unclenches his fingers, pulling out onto the highway. The road rolls away beneath them, sunlight flickering merrily through their windows. The radio hums quietly, playing some sort of Disney song that has Papyrus bouncing along in his seat. “They were maybe a little burnt, and, um, somehow still soggy, but—”

“They were a health hazard, pops,” Sans says, grinning. Papyrus tugs at the DS, and Sans lets him take it. “A well-intentioned health hazard, but definitely a health hazard.”

Gaster sighs forlornly. “Oh, maybe you’re right. See, that’s why you’ve got to leave cooking to licensed professionals. It’s a dangerous game.”

“But Grillby remembered the snacks?” Papyrus asks, mashing his fingers on the DS buttons quite enthusiastically.

“Yes, he did. He and the victory snacks are already there, waiting to be eaten.”

A  _ look  _ flickers over Sans’ face.

“The snacks!” Gaster amends quickly (and in a very, er, screechy sort of tone). “The snacks are waiting to be eaten, not Grillby!”

Sans snickers, leaning against the window. 

“Grillby wouldn’t be good to eat,” Papyrus decides, as though he’d  _ actually considered it.  _ “I bet it would hurt.”

“Yes, it would, but that’s hardly the point. The point is, we don’t eat friends.” A good life lesson to be learned, he supposes, although he, uh. He didn’t really think it was something that needed clarifying. 

“Fish are friends,” Papyrus says philosophically, “not food.”

“Fish? Grillby isn’t a fish.”

“Undyne is.”

“Well you musn’t eat Undyne either!”

_ “No,”  _ Papyrus says patiently, giving Gaster a long-suffering look, “because she’s a fish, and fish are friends not food. If you eat a fish, you have to go to the shark circle and talk about it.”

“The shark—the shark circle—?”

It is in this manner their conversation (and, indeed, most of their conversations) proceed until Gaster finally parks the car outside of the elementary school. He helps his children out of the car, grabbing his tote and herding them towards the soccer field. Grillby meets them there, sparking merrily. “Good morning, boys.” He offers Sans a fist-bump, then ruffles a hand over Papyrus’ skull. “Are you ready to win some games?”

“Yes yes yes yes!” Papyrus says, bouncing in excitement and grabbing Grillby’s hand.

“Eeeeh,” Sans says.

“But of course it’s all about having fun, not winning,” Gaster reminds them, patting his sons’ heads before heading towards the bleachers to set his tote down alongside Grillby’s cooler of victory snacks.

“Winning makes it better, though,” Grillby whispers behind him, and Gaster rolls his eyes. He spreads a blanket out over the bleachers, and Sans and Papyrus climb up to sit beside him. He offers them both a bottle of water. Papyrus readily chugs his, while Sans rolls his contemplatively between his palms before sipping at it. Grillby takes a seat beside them, leaning back on his palms and tipping his face up to bask in the sunlight. 

Asgore arrives a few minutes later, wearing shorts and a t-shirt with the school name and mascot plastered across it. He’s holding a posterboard with PAPYRUS IS AWESOME written on one side and GO SANS GO on the other. Papyrus gasps when he sees it, and Sans looks fondly at the old goat. 

“Are you boys ready to  _ win?”  _ Asgore asks, setting his things down and clapping his paws together. 

“It’s about playing,” Gaster starts philosophically (once again), “not win—”

_ “Yeah!”  _ Papyrus screeches. “I’m gonna win!”

Gaster sighs, half in exasperation and half in affection, and Grillby tosses him a jagged grin. “Well,” Gaster says, heaving himself to his feet, “we’d better you get boys down to Coach for warm-ups.”

Sans and Papyrus trot along after him as he leads the way down to the coach, where the teams have begun gathering. Undyne shouts when she sees Papyrus, nearly bowling him over with an enthusiastic hug. Alphys, rather more timidly, finds a spot next to Sans. The two of them seem to be having a jolly good time bemoaning the physical exertion they’re being forced into. Gaster can’t blame them—being coerced into playing games doesn’t seem like any fun. Of course, Sans had been more than willing to do it, when he’d seen how disappointed Papyrus looked at the thought of  _ not  _ doing it.

“Alright,” he says, crouching in front of his boys one last time. Papyrus bonks their skulls together enthusiastically, and Gaster laughs, wrapping him up in a tight hug before releasing him. “I’m headed back up to Grillby and Asgore. You know where to find me if you need me. You guys are gonna do great, okay? Just remember to have fun.”

“I will,” Papyrus says, waving cheerfully as he heads back towards Undyne.

“And you—” Gaster stands, then reaches out and taps Sans’ forehead. “I know this isn’t your idea of fun, but I’m proud of you for being here. You’re pretty awesome, you know that?”

Sans’ eyes soften. He hugs Gaster around the waist, a smile flickering across his face. “Thanks. I get it from my dad.”

Gaster has the best children in the  _ fucking world.  _ He watches with nothing short of adoration as Sans returns to Alphys’ side, their gazes snapping over to Coach as she begins to hollar for the teams to gather around. As they do, he climbs through the railing and back into the bleachers, taking his seat between Grillby and Asgore. 

“Alright,” he says. “I’m ready to watch them kick some ass.”

Grillby laughs, elbowing him. “There’s my boy!”

The game begins within the half-hour, after the kids have gone through their warm-ups. The first graders play first, and Gaster is on the edge of his seat the entire time, clicking his teeth every time the ball gets kicked to Papyrus. But his boy comes through! He’s clumsy (he’s  _ six,  _ of course he’s clumsy) and a little confused, sometimes, but he’s got the spirit, and Undyne is always there to help him out with his plays. 

Asgore provides shouts of encouragement for their trio—Grillby and Gaster are both quiet by nature, so Gaster’s glad to have someone willing to, you know, bellow at the top of their lungs whenever Papyrus scores a goal. The king takes that duty very seriously. Not a single goal goes un-shouted at. Sans, too, cheers his brother on from the sidelines, his eyes shining each time Papyrus lights up after a goal or a batch of particularly good footwork. This part of the game, it seems, is more enjoyable to Sans than any other part will be.

But Papyrus’ team doesn’t win. Gaster flinches when the game is called, scrubbing his face with his hands.  _ That’s  _ going to be a fun conversation. Oh, dear—oh, Papyrus already looks crushed. Beside him, Grillby and Asgore both cringe, and he shoots them both sour looks.

“Guess I, uh, shouldn’t have gotten him so focused on winning,” Grillby says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry?”

“Yes—we’ll talk to him, Wingdings, don’t worry,” Asgore assures him.

Gaster’s face softens. “...alright. Thank you. I think he’d appreciate that very much.” He straightens up, after that, plastering an encouraging smile across his face when Papyrus glances his way. There’s no reason to make him feel bad. None at all. Papyrus stays on the sidelines with his team to watch the fifth graders play, although his shoulders are slumped and Undyne fumes beside him.

Sans plays...well, Sans plays the way Gaster expected him to play: lazily and sloppily and without much focus. Not that there’s anything wrong with that! This just isn’t his thing. He showed up, and he participated, and that’s what matters. The teachers can’t expect every single child to give their  _ best  _ during an activity they don’t even enjoy, after all. That’s just folly. Even so, Asgore hollers whenever Sans so much as touches the ball with his food. At the very least, Sans seems to find that funny—he flashes a grin in their direction each time. 

The fifth graders’ team, somewhat more predictably, also loses. Sans doesn’t seem at all beat up about that, which is nice, because Gaster is going to have his hands full mitigating the disaster that is a disappointed Papyrus. The teams gather into a quick post-game huddle with Coach, and Gaster rises to his feet and stretches his spine. He takes a deep, bolstering breath, already trying to plan out what to say his youngest.

“Hey.” Grillby touches his back gently, and Gaster glances at him. “I’ll talk to Papyrus, Wing. You wanna deliver the victory snacks to the little munchkins?”

Gaster hesitates.

“It’s alright,” Asgore says, appearing on his other side. “Have a little faith. I’ll help you carry the cooler down.”

So Gaster relents. He and Asgore scoop up Grillby’s cooler, carrying it down to the sidelines and opening it to reveal a veritable feast: cookies iced to look like soccer balls, frozen fruit chunks in little baggies, cobb salad sandwiches, and a menagerie of sports drinks. The kids fall hungrily upon the cooler—all save Papyrus, who broods along the sidelines. Grillby kneels in front of him, and Gaster can’t help but eavesdrop. (He’s terrible. He knows.)

“Hey, Paps,” Grillby starts. “You don’t look happy. What’s up? Is it because you lost?”

Well. Never was one to beat around the bush, was he?

Papyrus shrugs, his eyelights skittering away from Grillby. They land briefly on Gaster, and then, with a flash of shame, dart away again. Gaster’s chest aches, and he has to fight to stay in place instead of swooping in to rescue his child. 

“You remember what your dad said?” Grillby prompts. “It’s about having fun, not winning.”

“But winning makes it better,” Papyrus says, scuffing the ground with his sneaker. “‘s what you said.”

“Yeah, and sometimes that’s true, but you know what makes a game the  _ best?” _

Papyrus glances warily at him. “...what?”

“Getting to celebrate with your team, no matter what happens. Getting to know you did a good job. Knowing that you tried your best, that you worked for what you wanted, even if—” Grillby glances to the east, briefly. (Glances at Mt. Ebott, where the barrier once stood. Glances at his own failure.) “—even if you didn’t get the result you wanted. And yes, alright, maybe it feels like all of that work went to waste, but it didn’t, because you learned something, didn’t you? You and all of your teammates. You learned, and you got out there and you had fun with each other. You can’t let a little thing like losing ruin the whole day for you, kiddo.”

Papyrus scrubs his arm across his eyes. “I wanted to make you guys proud.”

“And you did,” Grillby says, setting his hands gently on Papyrus’ shoulders. Warmth blossoms in Gaster’s chest, and his shoulders relax. “I’m so proud of you, Papyrus. You did  _ awesome  _ out there. I know your Uncle Asgore and your dad are so, so proud of you too, but don’t just take it from me.” He tweaks Papyrus’ nose gently, then turns him around and nudges him towards Gaster. “Go ask ‘em.”

Papyrus hesitates, then comes to stand in front of Gaster, who crouches in front of him. “Hey,” Gaster says gently, knocking their skulls together. “You did great, Papyrus. Losing doesn’t mean you  _ didn’t  _ do great.” He glances, briefly, up at Grillby. “Some things are just out of your control. But you fought hard out there, and I’m so, so pleased with you. You deserve to rest now. How does a victory snack sound?”

“Is it a victory snack if we didn’t win?”

“Well, you won something, that’s for sure. You won knowledge, and you won a great experience for yourselves,” Gaster says cheerfully, steering Papyrus towards the cooler. “Eat up, okay? You don’t need to feel bad anymore.”

When he turns back to Grillby, the elemental is frozen in place, his face unreadable. 

“Hey,” Gaster says. “You okay? You did good. You’re always good with them, actually. I don’t know what I was—”

Grillby comes to stand beside him, then leans against him—an invitation. Gaster huffs fondly and wraps his arms around him. “Thanks,” Grillby says softly. “I tried.”

“I know,” Gaster murmurs, rubbing a hand gently along Grillby’s back. “I know you did, spark. It’s okay. Would a cookie make it better?”

“A cookie makes everything better.”

So they sit, and they eat cookies crafted by a soldier’s hands, and it makes everything better. Sans comes to lounge beside them, leaning against Grillby’s side and munching a sandwich. Asgore meanders over a few minutes later, carrying Papyrus against his chest. They stay until the cooler has been emptied of its contents (children are ravenous beasts after a game, so it doesn’t take long) and then pack their vehicles. They say their goodbyes, and Asgore crushes them each in an enormous hug before releasing them. Papyrus is asleep before they reach the highway, and even Sans seems quiet and sleepy as he plays his DS.

It was a good day, Gaster decides. Yes, perhaps they didn’t get the results they wanted, but what does that matter, in the grand scheme of things? It was a good lesson for Papyrus, and after the sting of loss fades, Gaster hopes he’ll remember this day fondly. Gaster knows he will, at the very least.


	3. because of...the noodles?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: brief insecurities, self-loathing
> 
> based off of a prompt by @determinationisnotcrash on tumblr!

Grillby gets home late—of course he does. He’s a bartender. There’s nothing unusual about  _ that.  _ What  _ is  _ unusual, however, is that when he gets home, the doors are locked, the lights are off, and there are strange little scrapes across the wooden paneling of their living room. Alarm bells blare in his mind (Gaster  _ never  _ locks the doors before Grillby gets home), and he creeps into his own house like a criminal, his flames dim and his footsteps as quiet as he can make them. Whatever lurks in here is going to find him an unpleasant enemy to confront  _ (especially  _ if they’ve laid hands on his soulmate).

He clears each room downstairs, then heads up to the bedroom, his soul in his throat. Gaster has to be alright. He has to be, he has to be, he  _ has to be.  _ (Because Grillby doesn’t know what he’ll do if he isn’t. He can’t even imagine it). He pauses outside of the bedroom door, listening intently. After only a moment, he hears the gentle click of bone. Relief swells in his chest. Gaster is here, and okay enough to be moving. Grillby turns the door knob, pushes the door open, and—

“Okay,” he says, which is very much not what he is thinking, because  _ what the fuck is he actually looking at right now.  _ “What—?”

“I don’t  _ know!”  _ Gaster wails, sitting back on his haunches. “Grillby help, Grillby  _ fix it—” _

Grillby’s...not sure where to begin the fixing, to be quite honest. Gaster appears to be caught in a strange halfway form between skeleton and blaster. It’s a form Grillby has only ever caught glimpses of before—because it usually only ever  _ lasts  _ for a few glimpses of time. “Okay,” he repeats. “Um. How did you—?”

“I was cooking dinner and I got angry and  _ this  _ happened and now I can’t make it go back but it won’t go  _ forward  _ either so I’m going to be stuck like this forever, I’m going to be the freakish raptor man who knocks things over with his tail all the time and they won’t let me in the lab because I’m a hazard and I’ll break all of the glassware, and I won’t be able to use any of the pipettes because my  _ thumbs  _ are  _ not opposable,  _ and I keep getting these stupid blaster thoughts like ‘oh you should chew on the curtain tassles’ or ‘oh you should nest underneath the kitchen table’ or—”

“Stop.” Grillby holds his hands up and Gaster stops. “Are you being dramatic or are you genuinely distressed right now?”

Gaster sniffles, and his brow furrows in thought. The skeleton has never been much good at reading his own emotion—and  _ gods  _ is he dramatic—so he needs the pause to decide what he’s  _ actually  _ feeling. Grillby is more than content to give him that pause. After a moment, Gaster says, “I think I’m genuinely distressed. Well, and dramatic. But, you know, there’s some genuine distress there.”

“Alright.” Grillby takes a seat on the bed next to him. In this form, Gaster looms—he isn’t the size of a full blaster, but he’s certainly larger than any hominid skeleton has the right to be. Evidently, he notices this as soon as he realizes he has to look  _ down  _ at Grillby. He hunches his shoulders, curling himself downwards in a useless attempt to seem smaller. “Are you in pain?”

Gaster flexes his fingers—er, claws. “...not anything acute,” he says. “It’s uncomfortable, and awkward, but—it’s not terrible. But standing  _ up  _ feels weird, and going on all  _ fours  _ feels weird, because my damned brain can’t decide whether it wants to bipedal or quadrupedal, so I just—haven’t moved?”

“Good—I’m glad you aren’t hurting. Let’s just stay sitting for now, alright?” He tries his best not to stare, but damn if it isn’t morbidly interesting to see Gaster in this form. His dorsal spikes have all but ruined his shirt, and his whiplash tail rests in his lap as he fiddles anxiously with it. Grillby’s firelight reflects gaudily from the surface of his bones, gleaming off of his elongated eyeteeth. “What were you angry about?”

“The noodles,” Gaster says, scowling. His dorsal spines bristle in offense at the reminder. “They kept sticking to the pot, which is absolutely senseless, because they were literally  _ in water.  _ How can something stick through water?”

“The noodles,” Grillby repeats. “You got mad enough to shift because of...the noodles.”

“Yes! I was trying to make dinner.” He frowns at his lap, his shoulders hunching. “I was trying to make you dinner. I wanted you to have something that didn’t come out of a damned box to eat before you went to sleep, and I know you really liked the spaghetti at Malyn’s last week, so I was trying to make you some. I just—I wanted to do something nice for you, and it wasn’t working, because it  _ never works,  _ and—”

“Wing.”

Two nervous eyelights flick in his direction—the expression of a particularly guilty dog, he thinks. “Grillby.”

“Thank you.”

Surprise flashes across Gaster’s face. “For what?” 

“For thinking of me.” Grillby rests a hand on his shoulder, a warm smile flickering across his face. “You’re very sweet.”

“Oh, no, it’s—oh, it’s nothing,” Gaster says, his cheeks tinting purple. “You cook for me all the time. I was just trying to return the favor. I mean, it wouldn’t have been a  _ delicacy,  _ but it would have been better than leftovers, or ramen, or—or at least I hope it would have been better, I’m just not terribly good at all that—”

“And that’s perfectly alright. You don’t need to cook for me if you don’t want to.”

“But I  _ do  _ want to!” Gaster says, distress creeping into his tone again. “I wanted—I wanted to show you that I care, that I love you, because I’m so  _ bad  _ at that, and I never do it right, and—”

“What? That’s nonsense.” Grillby leans against him, wrapping an arm around his back and settling it between two dorsal spikes. Gaster slumps helplessly against him—even at this size, he can’t weigh more than fifty pounds. “I know how much you care. You’ve never let me doubt that for long—and if I ever did doubt, you can rest assured it wasn’t because of something you did. You and I show our love in different ways, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I wanted you to be happy,” Gaster mumbles, “and I ruined it. Maybe—maybe not with the noodles, but by being overemotional and dramatic and turning into  _ this—” _

“You haven’t ruined anything. Take a deep breath.”

Instead, Gaster stumbles off of the bed and begins to pace the floor. He hunches over, as though torn between dropping his hands to the ground or wrapping them around himself. His tail lashes wildly to try and balance his odd form. “I put gouges in the floor downstairs. I broke one of your pots, trying to turn the damned stovetop off after I changed. I turned into  _ this.” _

“Wingdings—”

“Stars, look at me, Grillby! What if I’m stuck like this forever?” A petrified growl rattles between his ribs. “What if I’m this big, stupid,  _ ugly—” _

_ Whump!  _ Grillby’s aim is, as usual, impeccable. The pillow smacks Gaster directly in the face, and he yowls like he’s been shot. Oh, the  _ drama.  _ (It’s one of the many things Grillby loves him for, but  _ stars  _ if it doesn’t make things difficult, sometimes.)

“Ow! What on earth was that for?”

“Shut your mouth, Wingdings Gaster. Big? Yes. Stupid or ugly? Absolutely fucking not.” He stands, reaching up and snagging the collar of Gaster’s shirt to tug him down to eye level. “Absolutely fucking never. Mind your manners when you talk about my soulmate.”

Gaster’s eyes flick away, his tail curling nervously around his own leg. He opens his mouth, and for a moment, Grillby thinks he’s going to argue. He doesn’t. “...sorry.”

Grillby exhales a breath of smoke, then leans up on his tip-toes to kiss Gaster’s forehead. “Forgiven, darling. Now, listen to me: you aren’t going to be this way forever. Shifting is part of your biology. Scientifically speaking, why would just be  _ unable  _ to anymore?”

“I—scientifically speaking, I shouldn’t be,” Gaster admits. “But scientifically speaking, I shouldn’t be stuck in this form, either. It’s never just...stopped like that before.”

“Well, all the times you’ve changed before, you’ve either meant to or you’ve been absolutely furious. In this case, you were just...a little too upset. You caught yourself before you really got angry, didn’t you?”

Gaster nods miserably. “I didn’t want to destroy the house. And I know I’m dramatic, but—but I really do know when I’m being  _ too much,  _ Grillby. It wasn’t fair to get that mad about  _ noodles.  _ I tried to calm down, and I thought I’d change back when I did, but I’ve just been stuck this way.”

“How long has it been?”

“‘bout an hour.”

“Okay. I’m sure that  _ feels  _ like forever, but it really hasn’t been that long. Besides, you’re still upset.”

Gaster doesn’t try to argue that point, thank the stars.

“So let’s just—settle you down some more. I’m sure once you’re calm, it’ll be easy for you to change back. C’mon.” He turns on heel, marching back towards the door. “Let’s go.”

“I can’t.”

Grillby turns and arches an eyebrow at him.

“I’ll mess up the wood floors,” he explains. “My claws.”

“Floors can be fixed, Wings. I don’t care about that right now. Just come sit on the couch with me, okay?” He rocks on his heels, and, when Gaster still doesn’t look convinced, swallows his pride and resorts to wheedling. “It’s lonely down there, all alone in the dark, and after such a long time away from you already…”

Gaster groans. “And they think  _ I’m  _ the manipulative one.”

Once Grillby has led Gaster downstairs, he pushes him down onto the couch and swaddles him in blankets. He flicks on the TV, turning it to one of Gaster’s favorites:  _ Bill Nye the Science Guy.  _ As he heads into the kitchen to make hot chocolate, he hears Gaster mumbling along to the theme song. Fondness swirls in his soul; what a world it is, that he can have a half-shifted dragon (and, arguably, a weapon of mass destruction) curled up on his couch chanting a strange human scientist’s name under his breath. 

Once the hot chocolate is ready, Gaster pours two mugs of it, then heads back into the living room. He cuddles up next to Gaster, who curls his claws gently around his mug. “Thanks,” he says quietly. Grillby hums in response, sipping his own hot chocolate in small increments, so he won’t smother the flames in his mouth. “Hey, Grillby.”

“Hm?”

_ “Can  _ you teach me how to make spaghetti? I know I don’t  _ have  _ to cook for you, and it’s okay if that’s not how, um, I always show my affection, but—but still. It’s not fair that you have to come home and eat dumb hot pockets before you go to sleep. At least not always.”

“I really don’t mind the hot pockets,” Grillby says, leaning his head against Gaster’s shoulder. “I don’t want you doing things like that just because you feel guilty.”

“No, no, that’s not it. I just—want to make you feel loved.”

“You already do.”

“I—I—”

“Shh. We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Grillby murmurs. “You’re supposed to be  _ relaxing.” _

Gaster huffs out a quiet little breath, then nuzzles down against Grillby. “Alright, alright. Tomorrow.” He yawns, watching the TV screen through half-lidded eyes. “But really. I love you, Grillbz.”

A smile flickers across Grillby’s face. “I know. I love you too.”

When Grillby wakes up the next morning, Gaster is splayed out on the couch and back in his regular form.  _ Called  _ it. Grillby moves to sprawl out on top of him—Gaster had always been fond of his weight and heat—and hears Gaster murmur, pleased. Even as different as they both are, there are some things, Grillby decides, that he doubts they’ll ever disagree on; their love for each other (and for snuggles) is assuredly one of those things. And everything they  _ do  _ disagree about?

Well, that’s nothing that can’t be solved with some cuddles, some blankets, and a conversation over a couple of mugs of hot chocolate. 


	4. stubborn, aren't you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: nausea/vomiting, self-neglect, self-loathing
> 
> based off of a prompt by @anchestor on tumblr!

Gaster wakes up, and the very first thing he notices is  _ holy shit he’s sore.  _ The second thing he notices is  _ oh, Grillby.  _ It’s obvious which one of these things requires his immediate attention. He flops over and burrows up to Grillby’s back, sticking his nose into the nape of Grillby’s neck and sighing in contentment. Grillby mumbles something groggy and incoherent, so Gaster resigns not to pester him any further quite yet—after all, the whole  _ point  _ of pestering Grillby is to weasle attention out of him. Doing that at the cost of his soulmate’s precious sleep isn’t fun  _ or  _ kind.

Fortunately, Grillby stirs himself awake only a half-hour later. He takes a deep breath (the kind of breath Gaster has come associate with the elemental’s ‘alright, time to get prepared to do something’ mental state) and rolls over, quite effectively squishing Gaster against the mattress. Gaster doesn’t mind. Far from it. He wraps his arms around Grillby’s chest and bites his shoulder affectionately, basking in the weight and heat Grillby offers him so readily.

_ Morning,  _ Grillby signs sleepily.

“Moooorning,” Gaster says, rubbing his cheek against the back of Gaster’s shoulder. He signs along to his words as he speaks—it’s second nature to do so, at this point. “How’d you sleep? No bad dreams?”

_ Not a single one.  _ Grillby rolls off of Gaster and pushes himself up onto hands and knees. Gaster whines at him; the removal of his warmth is always displeasing, but it’s even worse today, because the creeping cold makes every ache feel worse. Grillby obligingly settles down on top of again, pressing a kiss to his forehead.  _ What about you? _

“Mm, slept good,” Gaster says, which isn’t  _ entirely  _ a lie. The first few hours of the night had been perfectly normal—the last few had been tossing and turning and feeling miserably cold in between brief, restless patches of sleep. He trails his fingers gently up and down Grillby’s spine, and the elemental crackles happily and nuzzles into the side of his neck before peeking back out at his hands while he signs. “Big plans for the day?”

_ Just working. You? _

“Juuuuust workin’. I gotta finish extracting that soul Asgore gave me last week.” He yawns, his jaw cracking. “Maybe—maybe it can help break the barrier, if I just work hard enough with it—”

_ If anyone’s going to bring that barrier down, Wings, it’s going to be you—but don’t work too hard, alright? _

“I won’t, I won’t.” He nibbles the corner of Grillby’s jaw, sighing happily. “You worry too much.”

_ I worry an appropriate amount for  _ you,  _ you little pest. _

Gaster grins. “Got me there, hot stuff.”

After more minutes of indulgent cuddling, Grillby reluctant pushes himself off of Gaster. Gaster signs forlornly but accepts it, this time—they’re both big, grown-up adults with big, grown-up adult jobs to tend to. He supposes it’s irrational to want to stay home and snuggle all day. Besides, he  _ does  _ have exciting things to do. If only he can work this ache out of his bones, today is bound to be a good day.

The two of them tug on their clothes—Grillby looks as impeccable as ever in his slacks and waistcoat, and Gaster can’t resist dropping a kiss against his temple as Grillby fusses with his bowtie. “You look great,” he says. “The classiest gentleman in Snowdin, I daresay.”

_ And you,  _ Grillby says, reaching out to straighten the collar of Gaster’s button-up (the one with the little pink llamas all over it),  _ look like your adorable, eccentric self. Tell the lab coat hi for me. _

“You know she misses you.”

_ Bring her home to visit. _

“I need to. She’s getting dirty—she could use a run through the washer.”

They head downstairs, and Grillby cooks breakfast, humming quietly under his breath. Gaster flips through the newspaper as he waits; there’s not much going on, as of recently, but he briefs Grillby on what interesting things he  _ does  _ find. A single arrest down in Waterfall for petty theft, and—oh, it looks like Sans has opened a new stand. Snowcones, this time, in Hotland. Gaster will have to go and visit him soon. 

Once breakfast is finished, Grillby slides a plate onto the table in front of him. Ordinarily, the scent of hot bacon and fresh bread slathered with blackberry jam would have his magic cramping hungrily, but—he grimaces while Grillby’s back is turned. “Thank you,” he says, when Grillby takes a seat across from him. A smile sprawls across his soulmate’s face. “It looks wonderful, as always.”

_ You’re more than welcome.  _ Grillby scoops up his toast, taking a bite and sparking happily.  _ I have to say, it’s not bad. _

“Was this Harvest’s new recipe?”

_ Yes. It’s brioche. It’s a recipe she found in the dump; I looked it up in my own cookbook when she shared it with me. The original bread is French in origin, and it’s a bit more pastry-like than usual bread because it has so much egg and butter. I made a few modifications, of course.  _ Grillby’s eyes light up when he talks about his cooking, and damn if Gaster couldn’t listen to him for hours. (It’s also a blessed excuse for him to ignore his meal, for the time being.)  _ I pulled back on the butter content because I didn’t want it to be  _ too  _ rich, and I tossed in some nutmeg and cardamon to make it little more festive, since it’s so close to Gyftmas and all. It certainly altered the flavor profile; I’m not sure if it’s going to be my  _ favorite  _ profile, but it isn’t bad. I was thinking about trying it with a few savory spices, too. But what do you think of this? Try it, try it, tell me how it tastes. You may want to try it without the jam, first, so you get an honest representation— _

Grillby hops up and cuts a thick slice of bread from the loaf, toasting it gently in his palms before sliding it onto Gaster’s plate. Shit. How the hell is he supposed to say no to that, when Grillby is looking at him so earnestly? “I’m sure it’s going to be wonderful,” he says, lifting the bread. “Everything you make is.”

He sinks his teeth into the bread, tears. His magic dissolves it rapidly, and he was right—it  _ is  _ good. For a moment, the energy of it flushes him with warmth, and his aches ease. His eyelights brighten, and Grillby beams. Perhaps all he needed for this blasted illness was some good food. “Okay, so this is just more evidence to support my scientific theory: you’re a culinary genius.”

Grillby sparks with delight, his warmth flushing the room. Gaster tears another bite of the bread off, hoping for another pleasant burst of energy—unfortunately, what he gets is a pleasant burst of energy chased by a sour, nauseous curdle through his soul. He gulps. Shit. Shit shit shit shit—

The rest of breakfast is an awful balancing act. He tries to stall as much as he can, nibbling tiny bites to appease Grillby’s watchful eye and keeping up a steady stream of conversation. He’s only halfway finished with his plate by the time Grillby has to leave for work. He kisses his soulmate goodbye (he doubts his illness is contagious, whatever it is; transmitting diseases between monsters of two different species is a particularly difficult affair) and then, as soon as Grillby leaves, he scraps the rest of his food.

Ugh. What a waste of a perfect meal. Guilt curdles his soul further.

He washes their plates, wipes down the kitchen table, wraps and stores the leftovers, and carefully puts away Grillby’s cooking utensils before snagging his messenger bag and heading to the lab. If he can just avoid eating for the rest of the day, he thinks he’ll be okay to work. A few aches and chills never  _ killed  _ anyone, after all. Er, well. Not anyone as young and spritely and clever as  _ Gaster!  _ ...probably.

Anyway, he has soulmagic to extract. As soon as he reaches the lab, he greets his coworkers as cheerfully as he can, drops his bag in his office chair, and tugs on his labcoat and a pair of black nitrile gloves. Then he gets to work.

He makes it to lunchtime.

The whole morning, his aches steadily grow worse. His joints ache with each little movement, and fatigue grips him more often than not. Stars, how he would love to sit down and rest—but there’s work to be done, and the barrier isn’t going to break itself. If he can just push through for a few more hours, he’ll have the soulmagic extract ready for analysis, and he can go home and cuddle up with his elemental. If he can just push through. If he can just—if he can just—

Shortly before two ‘o clock, he lunges for his wastebasket and retches up sullied, gray magic. His bones rattle, chilled and sore, and he hugs his wastebasket to his chest and groans. This sucks. This fucking  _ sucks.  _ Why is he sick now, of all days? With a brand new soul to extract—frustration froths his magic up again, and he gags on it. He spits into the wastebasket, his soul cramping unhappily. He needs to go home. Shit, he know he needs to go home before he gets any worse, but he’s  _ so close.  _ If he stops now, he’ll have to preserve the extract, and it’s a pain in the ass to re-prep it for analysis. Just a few more hours. Two. If he rushes, maybe he can even do it in  _ one. _

He forces himself to stand on wobbly legs, and he decides to persevere.

At the same moment, there’s a knock on the door. Firelight casts strange, flickering shadows beneath his door, and he quickly shoves his wastebasket underneath his desk, straightens his lab coat, and strolls over to swing the door open. “Grillby! I didn’t know you were coming by.”

_ It was slow after the lunch rush,  _ Grillby says, smiling sheepishly at him.  _ Muffet’s holding everything down. I just wanted to bring you lunch—it’s your favorite. French fries and peanut buuuutter, you little weirdo. I also brought some more of that brioche bread from the house, if you want to split some with me. _

Oh, no. Oh, no no no. Gaster clenches his teeth, motioning Grillby inside. Stars, that’s so sweet of him, but it is the  _ worst possible thing  _ at the moment. “I, uh—I actually already ate,” he says apologetically as Grillby sets a brown bag down on his desk. The lie burns in his chest, and he feels his magic threaten to evict itself again. “But I’m sure it’ll make a great dinner!”

_ You’re...going to be here until dinner time? _

“Er, well.” Gaster scuffs the floor with his sneaker. “Hopefully not, but I can eat it when I get back to the house, since you’ll still be at work. Unless you want me to swing by the bar after I get done here, in which case I absolutely will, I just—”

_ What’s wrong? _

“What?”

_ Something doesn’t feel right.  _ He feels Grillby’s magic curls around his own through their soulbond, and his own magic responds with far, far too much excitement. Gaster clamps a hand over his mouth, his soul lurching—either in an attempt to get to Grillby, or in an attempt to get to the wastebasket. Grillby’s eyes widen, and he takes a step in Gaster’s direction.  _ What? What’s the matter? _

Gaster gulps, trying desperately to corral his magic back into line.  _ Nothing,  _ he signs, because he doesn’t particularly trust himself to speak at the moment. The lie burns. It makes everything worse, and there’s  _ not even a point in lying.  _ Grillby is his best friend, his partner, his soulmate—lying to him is a slap in the face and yet here Gaster is, lying. And for what? So he can scrape in a few more hours of miserable work? So he can make himself feel  _ useful?  _ So he can convince himself he’s not a fucking  _ failure  _ for taking so many goddamn years to make  _ not a bit  _ of progress on the barrier—

He lunges for the wastebasket again, then sits on the floor with it braced between his knees.  _ Sorry,  _ he says, choking back the magic that threatens to expel itself as best he can.  _ Sorry, fuck, sorry, Grillby. _

_ You’re sick.  _ Grillby’s face creases with immediate concern, and he crouches next to Gaster, setting a hand on his shoulder.  _ How long? _

_ I don’t know,  _ Gaster admits, sucking in a slow breath through his nasals. It soothes his nausea, if only slightly.  _ Um. I guess I started feeling weird last night? _

_ You’ve been feeling ill all day, and you didn’t think to tell me?  _ A streamer of red curls through Grillby’s flame, and Gaster winces.

_ Please don’t be angry. At least not right now. Just—please?  _ he says. He’s the worst soulmate, it’s him. Who the fuck lies to their best friend about something so  _ stupid?  _

Grillby breathes out smoke, squeezing Gaster’s shoulder.  _ Of course not. I’m sorry, that can wait. Let’s just get you home so you can— _

_ No! _

Grillby’s flames flicker, startled.  _ What? ‘No’ what? _

_ I can’t go home yet. I’m almost done with the soul extract, I just need to— _

_ Wings, you’re  _ sick.  _ You must feel awful. You— _

_ I have to finish! I have to stop wasting time, I have to— _

_ You are more important than  _ any  _ project in this damned laboratory.  _

_ Even the barrier?  _ Gaster demands, his eyes blazing.  _ Even freeing all of monsterkind? What you fought for, what thousands of us  _ died  _ for, and you want me to— _

_ I’m not saying you have to  _ stop  _ doing that, but take a  _ break.  _ The soul will still be here in a few days. What’s a few days compared to the years we’ve already waited? _

_ But that’s the point! We’ve waited  _ years,  _ because I’m too  _ slow,  _ because I’m too  _ stupid,  _ because I— _

Red smolders along Grillby’s shoulders, and his eyes narrow sharply in warning.  _ Wingdings. That’s enough. You’re—I don’t want to argue while you’re ill, but if you keep  _ saying  _ things like that I don’t know what else I can do. It upsets me too much. _

He can feel it’s the truth. Grillby’s soul, where it remains ever-linked with his, lashes in turmoil. Gaster snaps his jaws shut, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Sorry,” he whispers. 

_ Please. Just let me take you home. This can wait a few days longer, or you can have someone else finish it, but I just—I need you at home right now. I couldn’t stand it if I left you here to overwork yourself any longer. Please? If not for yourself, then for me, love. _

And Gaster may be able to neglect many, many things for his work, but his soulmate—oh, that one precious thing he could never neglect (not even for the freedom of all monsterkind). He nods miserably, letting Grillby haul him to his feet. Grillby gathers his things for him, and Gaster leans against his desk and sends a quick text to one of his assistants, issuing them instructions regarding the preservation of the soul and praying they’ll follow them to the letter. 

Then he follows Grillby home.

As soon as the living room door clicks shut behind them, Grillby sets his bag down on the table and then helps Gaster shed his overcoat.  _ Go lay down,  _ he instructs.  _ I’m going to run over to the bar and let Muffet know what’s going on.  _

So Gaster drags himself into the bedroom and flops out on their bed and wallows in a terrible concoction of self-pity and self-loathing. God,  _ fuck,  _ he feels worse by the minute. His magic shivers in disgust, and he curls up and tries to breathe through the waves of nausea that wrack him. He hears the door click shut downstairs, and Grillby steps into the room a few minutes later.

_ So,  _ he says, taking a seat on the edge of the bed,  _ what, precisely, is wrong? _

“Hurts,” Gaster mumbles. “All sore, and cold, and gross.”

_ Gross how? _

_ “Gross.” _

_ Alright, alright. You’re nauseous, I assume?  _ Grillby drags their bedroom wastebasket closer to the bed.  _ Have you eaten anything besides breakfast? _

Gaster squirms guiltily.

_...did you  _ finish  _ breakfast? _

“It was good,” he says, his eyes flickering across their blankets. “The breakfast, it was really good, Grillby, I didn’t lie about that, but I just couldn’t finish it, I—”

_ It’s alright.  _ Grillby reaches out, smoothing a hand across his skull.  _ Do you feel up to eating something now? Something light? Soup, or crackers, or— _

Gaster grimaces. “Nuh-uh.”

_ Okay. I’ll be right back. _

Grillby vanishes again, and when he returns, he balances a tray in his hands. He sets it down on the bedside table, and Gaster eyes its contents: a bottle of water, a small vial of peppermint oil, a washcloth, and a bottle of ibuprofen.

_ Here, can you sit up?  _ Grillby asks, coaxing Gaster up. He offers him a couple of the pills, which Gaster downs readily enough—they may not cure him, but he damn well hopes they’ll make him more comfortable. (If he can keep them down long enough for them to take effect, that is.) After that, Grillby gently cups his face in one hand and dabs peppermint oil across his temples with the other. The scent is soothing, and it curbs his nausea ever-so-slightly. He sighs softly, letting his eyes shut, and Grillby crackles quietly in approval. 

After that, Grillby stands and nudges him beneath the covers, then snuggles in next to him. He basks in the warmth of his soulmate, and wouldn’t you know? The aches are fading already. He flips over and buries his face against Grillby’s chest with the best, crackliest purr he can manage. Gaster may be a piece of shit, but damn if he isn’t the luckiest piece of shit in the world. “Thank you,” he mumbles. “Thanks, Grillby.”

Grillby hums low in his chest, rubbing Gaster’s back. For several long moments, the two of them simply lay together, and Gaster breathes in the scent of peppermint and smoke and  _ home.  _ He thinks, perhaps, that this will be it—that he’ll rest here a few hours, then bounce back. Unfortunately, that’s not to be. 

His magic—for no reason other than to spite him, he’s sure—suddenly lurches in his soul again, and he struggles upright and snags the wastebasket. He hugs it (good wastebasket, best wastebasket) and swallows convulsively against his the urge to vomit, sucking in deep breaths. Fuuuuck, he hates throwing up. He hates being sick. This is the worst thing that has ever happened to him, ever.

_ Oh, Wings.  _ Grillby sits up more slowly, watching him sympathetically.  _ It’s okay. Don’t fight it—you’ll just make it worse. Better out than in, right? _

Gaster groans his reply into the all-consuming darkness of The Wastebasket. 

Grillby exhales softly—exasperated fondness—and then reaches out to rub his spine with one warm hand.  _ Stubborn,  _ he signs gently with his free hand.  _ Stubborn, aren’t you, my dear? _

Well, of course. How else was he supposed to persevere for this long? He fights desperately against his magic for a few moments more, until the tumultuous lashing in his soul final overcomes him and he spends several very intimate and very regrettable minutes retching into the wastebasket. Grillby murmurs quietly to him in that special brand of Common only he uses—the vowels all slightly off, the contractions crooked, a loving attempt at speaking a language he’s never heard. His voice is a low, wonderful rasp, and Gaster shudders and tries his best to, you know, vomit a little more quietly so he can appreciate it.

It isn’t a very successful try.

“Shhh, easy, easy,” Grillby murmurs, stroking his shoulders as he shivers over the wastebasket. Sour magic strings between his teeth, and his back arches as he vomits again. This is Actual Hell. “Settle, now. You’re alright. You’re going to be just fine. There’s no rush, no shame in being sick. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere; I’ve got you.”

Gaster sits back once his soul stops churning quite so violently, leaning against Grillby’s side with a noise caught somewhere between a groan and a whine. Grillby kisses his temple, then whisks the wastebasket away and returns once it’s been cleaned.  _ Here,  _ he signs, holding the water bottle out.  _ You need to stay hydrated. _

Gaster winces, wrapping his arms around his torso.  _ Gross. _

_ I know you feel gross, but you’re going to feel even grosser if you don’t give your body what it needs,  _ Grillby says patiently. Gaster feels very much like a toddler.  _ Try to drink a little. Just a few sips, see how it settles. _

Gaster reaches wearily for the water, trickling it into his mouth, where his magic greedily dissolves it. Once he’s taken a few sips, he sets the bottle aside. Grillby scoops up the washcloth, gently wiping vomit from his teeth before urging him beneath the blankets again. As soon as he can, Gaster presses his face to the crook of Grillby’s neck and makes earnestly sad skeleton noises. His soulmate sighs fondly at him, cupping the back of his head gently. A mercifully vomit-less couple of hours pass that way—the two of them curled together, quiet and warm and safe. 

Then it’s dinnertime, and Grillby extracts himself from Gaster’s weak grip, and Gaster whines as fussily as he can because he just  _ knows  _ what Grillby is about to suggest.

_ You need to eat. _

Oh, there is is. “Noooo.”

_ Do you feel nauseous? _

He considers it. “Not right  _ now,  _ but I will if I eat.”

_ And how do you know that?  _

“Because,” Gaster insists. “My magic is calm right now, but if I add anything else to it, it’s going to start feeling gross again, and then I’m going to barf and  _ uuuugh.” _

_ Can’t you at least try? Something small. Chicken broth? A few saltine crackers? Some rice? Or I have some plain wheat bread, I could make toast—with peanut butter? Come on, Wings, you love peanut butter. _

Gaster whines, wrapping himself around a still-warm pillow, since his living heater has so cruelly abandoned him to the whims of the chilly bedroom air.

_ Wings,  _ Grillby coaxes, edging closer.  _ Please? Just for— _

Oh, he’s going to say it, Gaster knows he is, he—

_ —me? _

Theeeere it is. Fuck. “...fine,” Gaster mumbles. “Maybe just a little.”

Grillby lights up—well, more so than usual, anyhow—and then heads downstairs. Gaster listens to the quiet noises he makes as he works, the clatter of pots and pans, the snap-crackle-pop of flames, the creak of footsteps against old wooden floors. Sounds like home. Grillby returns a few moments later with a bowl of chicken broth and a piece of peanut butter toast. He helps Gaster to sit, then rests a gentle hand on his back as Gaster reluctantly tips the broth into his mouth. His magic swirls hungrily around it, and, as he’d predicted, starts his soul churning again. 

“Blegh,” he says, setting the bowl aside and eyeing the wastebasket. 

_ Too much?  _ Grillby asks, concern flashing across his face.

“Think so.”

_ Okay. We can try again later.  _ He sets the food aside, dragging the wastebasket closer again.  _ Do you need to be sick? _

“Let me get back to you on that in about two minutes.”

So Gaster sits for two minutes, and he breathes, and his magic slowly settles itself again. He flops back against the mattress, tugging Grillby down with him. 

“I hate this,” he says solemnly, studying their ceiling. Shadows trickle across it, chased in strange patterns by the constant movement of Grillby’s flames. 

_ I know. I’m sorry. _

“It’s hardly your fault.”

_ No,  _ Grillby agrees. He sits up, resting a hand gently against Gaster’s sternum.  _ Can I see? _

“Always,” Gaster says, blinking in surprise. “It’s yours. But, er—it’s not very pretty or amenable at the moment, I fear.”

_ It’s perfect for me, Wings. It always is.  _ Grillby summons Gaster’s soul, and it looks just as ill as Gaster feels—streaks of gray mar its surface, and its edges are crooked and thin. He expects it to lash out at Grillby, unhappy as it is, but instead it...settles. A warm smile sprawls across Grillby’s face, and he cradles the soul gently in his palms. Rapt. He looks rapt. 

Gaster glances away.

“Beautiful, as ever,” Grillby murmurs, and Gaster feels him smooth his thumbs along the soul’s surface. “Poor, beautiful thing.”

The elemental lowers himself to the mattress again, sprawling out on his back and resting Gaster’s soul on his chest (just above his own). He pets it gently, and its magic swirls around his fingers, chasing after the warmth of his flames. Gaster grimaces; that is too much activity for one little, sick soul. Grillby makes an apologetic sound and cups his palm over the soul, instead, encouraging it to rest still and quiet against him, and—

And it does.

For a moment, Gaster’s magic rests softly in the cradle of Grillby’s own. He knows that won’t be the end of it—even a soulmate’s touch can’t vanquish all things. He knows his magic will grow rowdy and wild again (if not today, then sometime in the near future), and he will grow sick with it, with stress and impatience and the knowledge of everything they’ve lost, everything he’s failed to win them  _ back— _

But not now. Now, if only for a moment, his soul is quiet.

He burrows into his Grillby’s arms, cradling his soul between them, and he rests.


	5. thanksgiving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: none!

“Mm—if there’s one thing I’m grateful for, it’s your  _ cooking,”  _ Gaster says, licking pumpkin pie batter off of his finger. “Peak talent.”

_ Oh, get out, you. _ Grillby flicks a towel at him, and Gaster whines and slides dramatically off of the counter. _ Go haze someone else. I’m not going to have anything left  _ to _ cook, at this rate. _

“Now, that’s a  _ little  _ bit of an exaggeration—” He drapes himself against Grillby’s back, reaching around him to sneak another bite of pumpkin pie.

_ Wings! I’m going to bite you! _

“Alright, alright.” Gaster laughs, pulling back and heading for the dining room. “I’ll go pester these two.”

“Don’t you even think about it, you dainty heathen,” Asgore says, pointing a red-stained spoon at him as he saunters into the dining room. 

“Think about what?” Gaster asks innocently, sidling up to him and peering into his mixing bowl. Cranberries, coated in a fine sheen of citrus juices, peer back out at him. He licks his teeth. “I just wanted to catch up with the business on this half of the house. Whatcha makin’?”

“Cranberry sauce,” Asgore says, hunching defensively over his bowl.

That curiosity satisfied, Gaster glances over at Toriel. “I’m making sweet potato poutine,” she explains, hefting up her tray of sweet potato slices and marshmallows. “I thought you might enjoy it, since you’re a fan of french fries.”

Gaster beams, practically skipping to her side. “It sounds marvelous! Here, let me taste test—” He snags one sweet potato stick, snapping it between his teeth with a hearty crunch. Not quite as good as it will be once it’s cooked, he imagines, but still  _ fantastic.  _ “Mmm. Toriel, you’re an angel.”

“Don’t spoil your appetite, now,” Toriel chides him mildly, lifting the tray. “Be a dear and put this in the oven for me? It needs to cook for forty minutes at three hundred and seventy-five degrees.”

“Your wish is my command, Your Majesty.” Gaster whisks away with the tray, munching another handful of raw sweet potatoes as he does. He’s almost made it back to the kitchen when he hears the front door slam open, and four rowdy children burst inside, squealing and chasing each other towards the dining room. Gaster stands very still (it’s the only semi-effective way, he’s discovered, to prevent tripping over hoards of tiny monsters) and lets them scramble around him, clutching the tray of poutine defensively to his chest.

“Hi, Dad!” Sans says, beaming as he races between Gaster’s legs. Undyne runs behind him, waving a stick triumphantly in the air. The stick very, very narrowly misses Gaster’s pelvis, and he wheezes in relief.

“Daddy!” Papyrus shrieks in greeting, stepping enthusiastically on Gaster’s foot as he chases his friends. His tail whips Gaster in the knees. Good  _ lord,  _ having children in the house is like being beaten to death by an angry mob at least once every waking hour. Fuku speeds past him last, her flames lashing with excitement, leaving him mercifully unharmed. They’re the dining room’s problem, now.

He finishes his treacherous journey into the kitchen, wedging another handful of raw potato into his jaw and beaming at Grillby. Grillby sighs in abject exasperation before moving aside so Gaster can slide the tray into the oven.  _ I swear,  _ he says,  _ sometimes it’s like having another toddler around. _

Gaster kisses his cheek, and Grillby dabs whipped cream onto the tip of his nose.

“D’Undyne come through here?” Gerson asks, hobbling through the front door and leaning heavily on his cane. His face creases with amusement when he sees them, and Gaster hurriedly wipes the whipped cream from his nose. “Or were you two loverboys too  _ busy  _ to notice?”

“Oh, no,” Gaster says. “We definitely noticed. Hard not to, really. She went that way.”

Gerson heads towards the dining room, shouting for the children, who shriek in delight and race away from him. It sounds like a herd of elephants has taken residence in the den. Gaster opens his mouth to comment as much, but he’s interrupted by a gentle call from the dining room: “Wingdings, dear, could you bring the bag of green beans in the fridge?”

He snags aforementioned green beans and returns to the dining room, handing them to Toriel, who offers him a sliver of fried onion as a reward. While he’s in the vicinity, he seizes his chance to edge up close to Asgore again, making a show of admiring the king’s dedicated cranberry stirring. “That about done?” he asks. “I don’t think you have to mash ‘em, you know.”

“Don’t tell me how to make cranberry sauce,” Asgore says, huffing. “Why don’t you make something instead of badgering everyone else, little one?”

“Because I—” Gaster says, leaning down and putting his forehead against Asgore’s, “—obliterate every food item I touch. For me, that’s not a problem. For monsters with actual digestive tracts, like yourself, you might find the results less than optimal.” With that, he reaches out, snags a cranberry, and pops it into his mouth. 

Asgore headbutts him hard enough to have Gaster yelping and beating a hasty retreat to the living room, nursing a sore skull and a sorer ego. He flops down on the couch, and Papyrus leaps up next to him, curling up in his lap and panting in excitement. “Hey, buddy,” Gaster says, ruffling a hand over his son’s skull. “What’s up?”

“We’re playing hide and seek,” Papyrus explains. “Mr. Gerson found me already, though. I think he’s still lookin’ for Sans.”

“Well, Sans is a good hider. Would you like to do something else while we wait?”

“Like what?”

“C’mere.” Gaster stands, scooping Papyrus into his arms and carrying him back towards the kitchen. “I bet Grillby would love your help finishing up these carrots.”

_ I certainly would. Do you want to help, Papyrus? _

Papyrus nods enthusiastically, already shifting into his hominid form. Gaster carefully readjusts his grip, then sets Papyrus down on the step-stool in front of the sink and helps him wash his hands. After that, he leaves the instruction to Grillby.

_ Here.  _ Grillby slides him a cutting board and a freshly-peeled carrot, along with a small knife.  _ Be really careful, okay? That’s sharp. You’re gonna chop the carrot, just like this.  _ He demonstrates, chopping the carrot into thin, neat pieces as Papyrus watches, rapt. He hands the knife to Papyrus, and Gaster hovers at his son’s elbow like the damned worrywart he is. Papyrus works with careful focus, his eyes narrowed. The slices are choppy and even, but the effort is there, and Grillby praises him enthusiastically.  _ Hey, those look great, bud! Awesome job! Can you scoop ‘em into this bowl for me? _

Papyrus scoops the carrot into Grillby’s mixing bowl, then carefully drizzles in oil, garlic, and a handful of fragrant herbs. He begins to stir, and with the knife removed from the picture, Gaster leaves him to it. He pats Papyrus’ shoulder, then heads back to the living room. A noise on top of the bookshelf draws his attention upwards, and he sees Sans curled up there, his eyelights gleaming in the darkness.

_ Ominous,  _ he signs.

_ Thank you,  _ Sans signs back, grinning.  _ Shhh.  _

Gaster flashes him a thumbs-up, then moves on. He curls up to watch TV—apparently, they’re watching Puppy Dog Pals today. Fuku comes to sit beside him, rubbing her eyes sleepily. “What?” he asks. “You can’t be tired already. You’ve gotta wait until the food coma sets in.”

_ Oh, right,  _ she says.  _ Sorry, food coma first. While we’re waiting, can we watch something else? Something a little more, er, interesting? _

Oh thank god. He tosses her the remote.

“Nat Geo,” Sans hisses from on top of the bookshelf. “Fuku let’s watch Nat Geo.”

“Aha! There you are, you little weasel!” Gerson shouts, pointing at Sans before beginning to scale the bookshelf. Sans laughs and lunges over his head, lightening himself with blue magic before he hits the floor. Undyne is quick to join them, abandoning her Legos in favor of wrestling with Gerson. Gaster and Fuku  _ attempt  _ to learn about the hunting habits of the Arabian Leopard through the chaos, with limited success. 

Dinner is served a couple of hours later, and all of them gather around the dining room table, warm and grateful and hungry. Er, well, _most_ of them are hungry.

“You know,” Gaster says, looking the veritable feast they’ve put together. “I’m actually not that hungry.”

Grillby groans and flings a towel at him, and the rest of them burst into laughter. Gaster nibbles the food as they feast, watching them all with warm delight—his family. Above everything else, he has always been most thankful for them, and he thinks (despite his mischief) that they feel the very same way.


	6. as long as you're with them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: none!
> 
> based off of a prompt by link the anon on tumblr!

“Alright, you two, we’re heading out now,” Toriel says, dropping a kiss onto your forehead. You beam, wrapping your arms around her neck in an enthusiastic hug. She chuckles and rubs your back before gently extracting herself. “Do try to behave. We’ll be back in just a little while.”

“Yeah, try not to get into too much trouble, boneheads,” Sans teases, elbowing Papyrus. 

“Trouble? Me? Never,” Papyrus says, puffing out his chest. “Don’t even think it. Everything is going to be perfectly  _ perfect— _ isn’t that right, human?”

You nod earnestly. 

“Alright, I trust you, bro. You got this.” Sans heads towards the door, ruffling your hair as he passes you. “See ya both soon.”

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Papyrus whips around to look at you. “Human! Are you ready to be babysat?” he demands, pointing at you.

You nod, nod, nod, nod.

“Fantastic! So—” He squints. “What, exactly, does one do while babysitting?”

You spread your hands helplessly. (You’re...still not used to being babysat. You don’t quite understand why it’s necessary; you  ~~ mostly ~~ survived the whole Underground without adult supervision—unless one counts Sans, which you very much do not—and you survived your life before that more or less on your own, too. You’re a bona fide independent. Toriel doesn’t quite seem to think that’s the case, though, and she gets very sad if you tell her so, so you try not to tell her so anymore.)

“Well, that’s fine. It’s nothing we can’t figure out. Come along.” Papyrus straightens his shoulders and marches up the stairs. You trot after him. The two of you step into his room, and he takes a seat near his bookcase, scanning the titles. “When I was little, Dad would always read to Sans and I. Or when he had to go to work, he’d leave us with Papa, and Papa would teach us how to cook. Well, he’d teach  _ me  _ to cook, and Sans would sneak bites.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond glint in his eyes as he remembers his brother’s antics. 

“Anyhow, that’s how my flare for the culinary got started—as you can imagine, I was a natural. Papa was  _ very  _ impressed.” He pulls a worn picture book from the shelf, brushing his fingers across it. “What do you think? We can read, and then I’ll teach you how to cook something yummy.”

He leans back against the bookshelf, and you burrow up against his side. He reads  _ The Cat in the Hat  _ to you, and he does the best voices for the characters, each bit of dialogue sprinkled with the bold cadence of his font. No one had ever read to you, before you decided to live with Toriel. It’s surprisingly pleasant, and you find yourself listening, rapt, whenever anyone offers to sit down and dive into a story with you. Papyrus is especially fun to read with—he gets so  _ into  _ the stories.

But the story ends, as all things must, and he gently jostles you out of your comfortable position against him. “Come on, get up,” he says, already climbing to his feet. You scramble up after him. “I’ve already decided! We’re going to make pancakes.”

He leads you to the kitchen, pulling a chair over to the counter so you can climb up on it to see. The ingredients: flour, milk, eggs, butter, sugar, sprinkles, chocolate chips, marshmallow fluff, salt, pepper, and thyme. Some of these are questionable, but you do not question him. He is, after all, Master Chef Papyrus—and you thrive on chaos. 

You mix vigorously as he tosses ingredients into a mixing bowl, dusting yourself liberally with flour as you do. The end result is a strange, lumpy, off-colored batter. Papyrus pours it into the skillet with a flourish that leaves more batter on the stovetop than in the pan, and the two of you watch, enamored, as it begins to bubble. The first pancake cooks a tad too long, you think—the edges are crisp and the underside blackened. The second pancake cooks a tad too little—the center is suspiciously...soggy. The third and fourth are slightly more edible attempts, and the fifth almost looks good. 

You drown yours in the syrup Papyrus offers you, then jam a forkful into your mouth. Mmmm. Tastes like marshmallow and herbs. Not great. You go in for another bite. “So?” he asks hopefully, folding his hands together and looking at you. “Do you like it?”

You flash him your most enthusiastic thumbs-up, and he beams. 

After that, it’s clean-up time. Papyrus may be fond of making messes, but he always cleans them up immaculately. You help him, scrubbing excess batter from the stovetop and rinsing the dishes once he’s wiped them off. The two of you take a seat on the couch in the living room, after that, regarding each other contemplatively.

“Well,” Papyrus says. “What now? Would you like to spar? I’ll be sure to go easy on you! Or would you like to play games? Or—”

You rub your eyes with one fist, fighting back the urge to yawn—not that sparring and games are boring! You’re simply sleepy. It’s late afternoon now, and warm, and you’re full and safe and content, and a nap sounds like just the thing. You doubt Papyrus would be willing to lay down and rest for very long, though. You can nap when Toriel gets home. 

“—or you’re tired,” Papyrus says, and you blink at him. Startlingly perspective sometimes, that one. “Of course you’re tired! You’re just a human child, and they need lots of sleep. I read about that in a book Toriel gave me; she’s very interested in this  _ parenting  _ thing. But as your babysitter, it is my great duty to see that you get all the necessary rest your species requires! Come on—”

He marches back upstairs, and you shuffle along after him. He directs you to his racecar bed, and you curl up beneath his blankets—they smell like bones and cheap cologne. (They smell like home.) “How about another story to get you to sleep?” he suggests. When he sits down again, he has his favorite book in his hands—the one about the fluffy bunny. You settle in, a tiny smile flickering across your face as he begins to read. Yes, you’re not very sure about this babysitting thing—but if it means you get to spend more time with your friends, then you’re not going to complain. Life is good, as long as you’re with them.


	7. for armor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: allusions to past violence/trauma, nightmares, implied nsfw
> 
> prompt from @spacegate on tumblr!

“Sans,” Papyrus hisses, jabbing Sans’ side. His older brother groans and rolls over, burying his head under his pillow. Papyrus jabs harder.  _ “Sans,  _ wake up. There’s a human in the house!”

“There’s a what?” Sans mumbles, peering muzzily from beneath the pillow.

“A  _ human.” _

“Paps, c’mon. There are no humans underground. Did you have a bad dream?”

Papyrus groans, climbing into Sans’ bed and bouncing.  _ “No,  _ I heard something down the hall. A human probably snuck upstairs and it’s about to eat Dad and so we gotta go save him. Come on, get uuuup, you lazybones! Do you want to be the skeleton whose dad got eaten by  _ humans  _ because you were too busy sleeping through the weird nighttime noises? Because  _ I  _ don’t.”

Sans reluctantly sits up, rubbing his eyes. “Like a human could even get through Dad. ‘sides, he’s got Grillby with him. They wouldn’t get eaten by a silly human.”

“Well—well, we have to go check on them anyways! Just in case.” Papyrus sets his hands on his hips, frowning severely at Sans. “A real royal guard never lets his slovenliness get in the way of his duties.”

“Precisely,” Sans says, sighing and rolling out of bed, “why I am not a royal guard.”

Papyrus scrambles off of the bed after him, snagging one of the many pillows scattered around the room and jamming it into his shirt. “Here,” he says, offering Sans another pillow. “For armor.”

“Oh. Right.” Sans jams a pillow into his shirt, too. “That’s pretty smart.”

Papyrus puffs out his chest. “I know.”

“You forgot one thing, though—” Sans grabs Papyrus’ fleece blanket, tying it around his shoulders like a cape. “There. Heroes always wear capes.”

Papyrus beams, smoothing out his cape before snatching the baseball bat from their closet.

“Uh, Paps, maybe that’s a little far—”

Papyrus whacks the bat ominously against his own palm. “Not for protecting our daddy, it’s not.”

Sometimes Sans forgets how terrifying his little brother is capable of being.

The two of them slip quietly out of their bedroom. Sans summons a small blue attack, lighting the way with its soft glow. Papyrus takes up a position on his blind side, staying a step behind him as they creep towards Dad’s room. The first few steps, Sans is convinced that Papyrus really  _ did  _ just have a bad dream and using this as an elaborate ruse to sleep in Dad’s bed again. (Sans can’t really blame him; Dad’s bed is a much better place to sleep than their own beds, after nightmares, especially if Grillby is there to make everything extra warm and safe. If this  _ is  _ a ruse, then, it’s not one Sans particularly minds.)

When they’re a few feet away from Dad’s door, however, Sans hears it: the ominous creak of the bed, and then a soft, sharp hiss of breath. It’s followed closely by a choked moan—very much like the sort Dad makes when he’s sick or in pain. Sans pulls up short, his eyes widening. Papyrus tosses him a look—he would fully understand if it was a  _ see I told you  _ look, but it’s not. Instead, Papyrus looks genuinely scared. Sans gulps. 

“Okay,” he whispers, pushing Papyrus back. “Stay behind me.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“If there’s a human in there, I’m gonna hit it with a blaster. If it’s still standing, you beat it up with the baseball bat while I summon a few more attacks. They’ll all be blue, so just  _ stand still.  _ Deal?”

Papyrus sets his jaw, nodding. “Deal.”

Sans takes a deep breath, sets his hand on Dad’s bedroom doorknob, and then plunges into the fray. Papyrus charges in on his heels with a fierce battle cry, his baseball bat held aloft. Dad shrieks, and before Sans can blink, an army of fractured bones spring to life around him. He hauls up his own wall of bones to defend himself and his baby brother, trying desperately to focus enough to get a blaster to sizzle to life beside him at the same time. The room is suspiciously dark—have the humans already gotten to Grillby? 

Oh my god, is Grillby  _ dead? _

“Sans?!” Dad demands, his eyes wide and petrified. The bones around them dissolve, and Sans lets his own attacks fizzle out, his bones rattling with nerves. There aren’t any humans that he can see, and Dad doesn’t  _ look  _ injured, but Grillby—oh, where’s Grillby?

“Daddy?” Papyrus asks, his voice cracking. When Sans glances at him, tears rim his eyesockets. “Grillby?”

“Oh—Papyrus, sweetheart, it’s alright. What’s wrong? Did you have a bad dream?” Sympathy floods Dad’s eyes as the fear leaves them, and he leans forward, peering closely at the both of them—for any injuries, more than likely.

Papyrus lurches forward, clambering into Dad’s bed. As his knees hit the end of the bed, a rather suspicious lump in the blankets stirs and yelps in pain. Sans nearly melts with relief. Grillby must be there, hidden beneath the blankets. He’d think it would get too warm under there, but then, Grillby is never  _ really  _ warm, is he? 

“I thought—I thought there were humans, I thought they were gonna eat you, I t-thought—” Papyrus starts, scrambling into Dad’s arms. Dad hugs him tightly, crooning softly in sympathy. 

“Oh, no, shhh, Papyrus,” Dad says, cradling the back of Papyrus’ skull gently and beginning to rock him. Grillby squirms out from under the blankets, fear-yellow bleeding from his flames, to be replaced by a sorrowful kind of deep blue. “No, no one was—” He stumbles over his words for a moment, cheeks suspiciously purple. “—eating me, really. There are certainly no humans around. All is well, all is safe.”

Papyrus burrow his skull beneath Dad’s chin, refusing to unlatch his arms from the vice grip he holds their father in. Grillby’s eyes, followed closely by Dad’s, come to meet Sans’. Sans hunches his shoulders, looking at his feet. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “We overreacted. I should have known better than to—”

“Come here, little one,” Grillby murmurs, opening his arms. Sans only hesitates a moment before breaking—he climbs onto the bed, burying himself against Grillby and rubbing his cheek against the elemental’s warm chest. Dad reaches out to cup Sans’ cheek in one hand, rubbing a thumb across his jaw. 

“It’s alright, Sans,” Dad says gently. “I understand. I would get scared if I thought you were being hurt, too.”

“We heard weird noises. We thought you guys were being hurt,” Sans admits, turning his face into Grillby’s collar. The elemental begins to rock him gently, the crackle of his flames soft and soothing. A tinge of pink curls through the edges of his flames, though. That’s weird. What does he have to be embarrassed about?

“Oh,” Dad says. He clears his throat. “I, ah—was just having a bad dream, that’s all. I’m sorry I woke you both.”

“‘s okay,” Sans mumbles. “Sorry we freaked out and scared you even more.”

“That’s alright. All’s well that ends well, right?” Dad asks, ruffling a hand gently over his skull. “At the very least, I know I have two brave boys who are willing to protect me. That makes me feel a lot better.”

“Really?” Papyrus asks.

“Really.” Dad clicks his teeth across Papyrus’ skull, smiling at him. “Nobody’s gonna hurt me while you guys are around—and nobody is going to hurt you guys as long as I’m around. Deal?”

“Deal,” Papyrus says, a determined expression flitting across his face before he buries it against Dad’s chest again.

_ And I’ll do my best to protect all three of you,  _ Grillby adds.  _ You’re my family. _

A smile flickers across Dad’s face, and he leans up to kiss Grillby’s cheek. “Thank you, my dear. Moreover, if anyone wants to hurt  _ you, _ I daresay they’ll have the finest fighting trio in the galaxy to get through. Right, boys?”

“Right,” Papyrus says, nodding fervently.

“Right.” Sans wraps his arms around Grillby’s neck, hugging him. “So can, um. Can we stay here tonight please?”

Dad hesitates, then relents, as he always does. “Oh, I suppose.” His hands flit in an aside to Grillby, quick and quiet, but Sans still catches the words.  _ Can we finish some other time? I’ll make it up to you. _

_ Of course, dear. This is infinitely more important. Just, erm. Keep them on top of the sheets? Your pants are over there. _

“Eeew, Dad, you’re naked?” Sans asks. 

Papyrus leans back, making a face as Grillby crackles with laughter and Dad’s face glows purple. “It’s warmer!” Dad says defensively, although there’s an amused crinkle around his eyesockets as he listens to Grillby’s cackles. “Alright, alright, I get it. Can someone just—Grillby, bring me my damnable pants. Boys, look away.”

Once Dad is mercifully less naked, Sans and Papyrus squirm under the covers with them, squishing comfortably in the middle. Papyrus still clings tightly to their father, so Sans burrows up to Grillby, sighing quietly as the blankets are tucked in around them. “Good night, my dears,” Dad says, kissing each of their foreheads. “I love all three of you very, very much.”

“We love you too,” Sans murmurs, allowing his eyes to shut. The warm glow of Grillby’s flames dances through the darkness that enscones him. Papyrus and Grillby both add their goodnights, and resting there, surrounded by the three people who love him most, Sans knows he need not fear his nightmares. 


	8. against all of that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: references to violence/murder/abuse/all of that great stuff from algernon, a pretty vague reference to separation anxiety, and anxiety in general
> 
> based off of a prompt by @z-artblog on tumblr!

Gaster jolts awake in the middle of the night, scrambling to sit up. The sheets feel like drowning. He claws his way out of them, intent on getting  _ away away away.  _ His feet hit the carpet, and he stands—his knees feel weak, and he couldn’t stop the agitated click-clack rattle of his bones if he’d tried. Red dots dance in front of his eyes, and he hauls in a deep breath, scratching at the side of his neck. In, out. In, out. In, out. He’s fine. Just a dream. Just a shitty, shitty dream.

Behind him, something stirs. 

Gaster whirls around, his eyes wide and his magic crackling nervously at his fingertips. The darkness around him is banished by the soft glow of firelight as his elemental frees himself from the sheets Gaster had (oops) tossed over him. For a moment, Grillby regards him solemnly. Then he lifts his hands.  _ Bad dream? _

Gaster nods shakily.

_ Okay. You know it wasn’t real? You know where you are? _

Another nervous nod.

_ Tell me. _

_ Snowdin. Home, in Snowdin,  _ Gaster signs.

_ Good, Wings, very good. We’re all home, and we’re all safe. _

_ Safe,  _ Gaster repeats, wringing his hands briefly before continuing to sign.  _ All safe. You’re safe. Sans and Papyrus are—are safe.  _

_ And…?  _ Grillby prompts gently.

_ I’m safe. _

_ Yes, you are.  _ Grillby stands, moving slowly towards him. He reaches out, and Gaster takes his hand, giving it a tentative squeeze before releasing it so he can continue to sign.  _ Everyone is safe, my dear, perfectly safe. Nothing is here to hurt us. Nothing has hurt us for a long, long time. Everything is well now, and it’s going to stay that way. We have nothing to fear. Here—would you like a hug? _

Gaster thinks about it. He thinks about being trapped, being held, being  _ smothered,  _ and he shakes his head. 

_ Okay. How about a drink, instead?  _ Grillby kisses his temple—gentle, brief—and then heads for the door.  _ I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready to talk. _

_ Right. I’m just—just going to check on the boys, I’ll be right down— _

Because knowing that his babies are safe just isn’t the same as  _ seeing  _ them safe. It’s particularity he hasn’t quite been able to rid himself of these past few years, and now he doubts he ever will. At the very least, it doesn’t interfere with his life as much as it used to. It’s just...after nightmares like that (nightmares where he tastes blood, where he rots alive, where he realizes he’s the wrong shape and his babies are dead, dead,  _ dead—) _ he needs to see them. He needs to know they’re alive and healthy. He needs to know they haven’t disappeared.

Quietly, he pokes his head into their bedroom. He spots Sans sprawled out in his bed, draped over a mound of blankets and snoring softly. His fingers twitch as he dreams, but there’s a tiny smile on his face. No nightmares plague him tonight, and that, at least, is something Gaster can be grateful for. Papyrus is asleep, too, Gaster’s pleased to notice—he doesn’t sleep much, and when he does, he sleeps feather-lightly and in short bursts. 

Right now, Papyrus is curled up in his own bed, bundled under his superhero blanket with Percy hugged tightly to his chest. The tattered purple dragon regards Gaster with two black button eyes—it’s his son’s fervent and very snugglable protector, when Gaster himself can’t be around. He’s remarkably grateful, he realizes, to whoever the fuck created stuffed animals (even if  _ that  _ particular stuffed animal leaves him with a sour taste in his mouth, if he thinks on it too long).

Once he’s assured himself that both his sons are well, Gaster heads downstairs. He finds Grillby, as promised, in the kitchen. A pot of milk bubbles on the stove, and Grillby stirs in a dollop of honey and a sprinkle of cinnamon. Gaster moves to lean against his back, propping his chin on Grillby’s shoulder. This way, there are no arms around him, nothing holding him in place, nothing  _ constricting  _ him. He can bask in Grillby’s warmth and strength without feeling miserable and trapped.

_ Sorry I woke you,  _ he signs apologetically. 

_ It’s no trouble. I’d much rather you wake me than allow yourself to suffer alone. _

_...you’re the best, you know that? _

_ The best is what you deserve, love.  _ Grillby kisses his cheek, ladling milk into one of Gaster’s mugs. Gaster buries his face against Grillby’s shoulder, humming happily as he takes the mug and cradles it between his palms (er—what’s left of his palms, anyhow). Grillby serves himself a mug, too, then gently nudges Gaster back so he can take a seat at the table. Gaster slides into a seat across from him, breathing in the milk’s warm steam before beginning to sip it.  _ Good? _

_ It always is,  _ Gaster assures him. The milk is warm and rich, lightly sweetened, and with a hint of spice from the cinnamon. He closes his eyes, humming in contentment. The shivers are already beginning to leave his bones. For a few minutes, the two of them drink in silence, and Gaster settles his breathing and lets the scraps of his dream leave him. He doesn’t even remember what it was about—and he doesn’t particularly want to.

_ Do you want to talk about it? _

_ No, thank you. Can we talk about something different? How has the bar been? Oh! Do the customers like your new shrimp scampi recipe? _

Grillby’s eyes brighten—enthusiastic, as ever, about his cooking.  _ I think they do. It’s hard to get many of them to try new things, you know—all set in their sleepy old ways. The few that have tried it have had a host of compliments, however. I’m pleased with the reception. _

_ Good, good. I’m really glad. I thought it was phenomenal. _

_ Thank you.  _ Grillby looks fondly at him.  _ What about you? How go the final exams? _

Gaster groans into his milk, blowing bubbles and then sneezing when he inevitably gets milk up his nose. Grillby sighs good-naturedly before handing him a napkin.  _ They’re hell,  _ he says, finally.  _ Aren’t they always? But I’ve almost got them all graded. I just have the last two pages—of course, those are all short answer, so it’s going to take me hours, and I don’t trust the TAs to get it done the way I want it to be done. I mean, I try to make my instructions clear, but—  _

But he just doesn’t trust assistants with much of anything, anymore.

_ Maybe it’s the stress that’s giving you nightmares again. _

_ Oh, maybe, but there’s nothing to be done for it. Stress is a part of life. _

_ Perhaps,  _ Grillby admits, propping his chin in his hand.  _ But we can help each other carry it, can’t we? You’ve gotten very good at coming to me when you’re stressed, Wings. Don’t stop now. _

_ I won’t.  _ Gaster leans forward, kissing the tip of Grillby’s nose.  _ Anyhow, it’s almost over. After this, we’ll have a nice, relaxing holiday. Any Gyftmas wishes for Santa, this year? _

_ How could I wish for anything? I’ve got all I need already. A safe house, a family, good food, great neighbors, and a phenomenal husband—what else is there to ask for? _

_ Oh, good answer, good answer.  _ Gaster laughs, ruffling a hand through Grillby’s headflames.  _ I’m going to need a better one before Gyftmas, though. Even Santa needs a few days to do his shopping.  _

_ I’ll keep that in mind.  _ Grillby catches his hand, kissing his fingers gently.  _ Are you ready to go back to sleep? _

Gaster hesitates, then nods. (There’s no point evading sleep, as he had discovered early on. Tempting as it may be, it only serves to make things worse.) They clean their dishes, put everything away, and file back upstairs. They curl together, beneath the sheets, and when Grillby opens his arms, Gaster squirms into them. They close gently around his back, and it’s—okay. Yes, it’s okay. He isn’t trapped. He hasn’t been trapped for a long, long time. 

Oh, the nightmares are unpleasant—and yes, he fears them and the despicable feelings they bring back to the surface. But against a soft bed, a gentle elemental, a mug of warm milk, and the sight of his babies safe and snug in their blankets? Well, nightmares against all of that? Nightmares are nothing. Not anymore. 


End file.
